


Outcall

by aerye



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's outcall doesn't go quite the way he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outcall

John's guard went up as soon as he saw the address. Clients who were that rich often had—unconventional—tastes that involved drugs or pain or practices that weren't particularly to his liking. His wariness increased when he saw that the doorman wore an earpiece and a suit instead of a uniform—a suit cut well enough to hide almost anything. The elevator operator wore an earpiece, too—and didn't bother to hide the bulge near his left armpit. There were two men outside the penthouse door; one touched his earpiece and spoke softly, checking John's face against an image on his phone—a phone John realized was several generations beyond anything he'd ever encountered with the company—while the other ran a wand over him. His keys were confiscated, as was his phone and his wallet, and then the taller of two bodyguards knocked quietly at the penthouse door.

It was opened by a man of medium height, with brown hair that looked like it had been cut by a hedge trimmer, and glasses. "Mr. Edwards?"

John inclined his head. "Mr. Thrush."

Thrush waved him inside. "Please, welcome." John saw the bodyguards resume their pose of deceptively relaxed, single-minded focus before the door shut quietly behind him. 

Thrush had been injured badly at some point, John realized, watching his stiff progress as he walked slowly across the room. When he spoke to John, he had to turn half of his body as well as his head. "Would you care for a drink, Mr. Edwards? I believe you prefer rye? I have—" John saw the quickly hidden grimace, "—Whistle Pig and Michter's Straight, although I can send out for anything you prefer."

John slid his hands into his pockets and assumed a position that would reveal the close cut of his trousers across his hips. It seemed Thrush was one of those clients who wanted to pretend this was romance; probably better just to get him back on track as quickly as possible.

Although it had been a long time since he'd been kissed.

"You can call me, John. And nothing for me, thanks." He didn't like to drink on the job anyway. One never knew what a client could pull and besides—it meant he could worry less about something being slipped into his drink.

Thrush looked at him steadily for a moment. "I assure you, I have no intention of putting any illicit substances into your drink. But I like my guests to be comfortable." He waved toward the other bottles on the bar. "I can provide you with something else if you prefer, or I have an excellent wine cellar. I have a Chateau Margaux, if you're interested."

"The 1995?" John asked, although he wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like proving something. The man didn't seem to be trying to make a point; the offer seemed sincere.

A small smile flirted with Thrush's mouth, which was surprisingly appealing. "I think the 1994. Perhaps the ninety-five when we know each other a little better."

"Speaking of which?" John dropped his shoulder and leaned against the nearest piece of furniture. The change in position shifted his hips, making the outline of his cock in his tight trousers clearly visible. "Shall we get to know each other better?"

Thrush let his eyes drop to consider the display without any visible embarrassment. 

_Used to home delivery_ , John thought with an unusual amount of acrimony. "The agency said you paid the maximum."

"Yes." Thrush lifted his eyes again. "I wanted to make sure we wouldn't be disturbed this evening. We've got a lot to cover."

John huffed out a short laugh. "You have an agenda, do you Mr. Thrush? Should I be concerned with my refractory period? Or is that aspect incidental to your plans?"

Thrush moved toward him again. "You needn't be concerned, Mr. Edwards. I'm sure you would score within more than acceptable limits on any continuum. But no, that's not really my focus this evening."

He tensed. "I have a very high tolerance for pain but I hope the agency made it clear that anything causing permanent damage was out of bounds."

Thrush's eyes remained steady. "Causing you pain is not my intention either. Perhaps I should explain, Mr. Reese. That is the name you prefer, correct? Not Edwards?"

John went still. "Perhaps you should, Mr. Thrush."

"I know quite a bit about you, Mr. Reese. You were born in Washington. You joined the Army on January 15, 1993, where you served several tours before retiring for the first time in 2001. At the time, you intended to find civilian employment and marry your fiancé, a Ms. Jessica Arndt, since deceased; however, due to the events of nine-eleven you returned to active service. In 2002, you again retired. You were at the time a sergeant with U.S. Army Special Forces; subsequent to your retirement you were recruited by the CIA. Currently, the government—everyone, actually—thinks you're dead, presumed killed in a mission to Ordos, China."

John scanned the room quickly. He could probably take Thrush in any physical encounter but given the high-tech he'd seen so far, it was entirely possible—probable—that there were cameras someplace. Thrush probably had a panic button on him someplace as well, but if John could take him down quick enough, there was enough furniture and glass to improvise. If he could get past the two at the door to the stairs—

Thrush turned his back on him and went back to the bar, where he poured himself a glass of whiskey. "I assure, Mr. Reese, there are no cameras. I am wearing an earpiece but it's currently off. If, after our discussion, you wish to leave, my driver will take you anywhere you wish to go."

Thrush refocused those light-colored, oddly intense eyes on him. "To continue. After surviving the mission the China you went off the grid, easy enough since everyone thought you were dead. For a while you lost yourself in a bottle, then you dried yourself out—most likely because of an innate tenacity that I think will be useful—and began a career as a sex worker. You worked out of some of the seamier sex clubs at first, catering to those who were interested in what I believe is referred to as 'rough trade.'" He passed John a manila envelope. Inside were several pictures: John stripped, cuffed, beaten, gagged.

"Perhaps you realized the chances of detection and need to remain off the grid; perhaps you simply tired of the abuse—forgive me, I don't mean to deem anyone's personal sexual preferences—"

"Your respect for privacy is impressive," John muttered.

Thrush frowned. "I assume that was a joke; however, I don't pry unnecessarily. If you accept my proposition—"

"I thought I had, but I have to be honest—I was expecting fewer clothes and less talking."

Thrush continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I will pry as little as is required to be effective." When John remained silent he continued. "That brings us to this year. You were recruited by a Mr. Sloane from the Hēdonē Agency and began doing outcalls, providing sexual services to men and women—mostly women, although I don't know if this is the market at work or your own preferences. The work has allowed you to attain some degree of financial security but offers you little else."

"I think you're underestimating the fringe benefits, Mr. Thrush."

"I rather think not. All evidence would indicate that you are a man who can find sexual companionship without resorting to selling—"

"My assets?"

"If you would be serious, please. I am gratified that you no longer seem to feel your life is at risk but I did pay rather a lot of money for your attention this evening."

John shrugged and smiled. "I'm at your service."

"I can give you what you want, Mr. Reese. I can give you what you need," Thrush said, his voice finally losing some of its measured tones.

"And what is it that I you think I need, Mr. Thrush?" he asked smoothly.

"A purpose. You need a purpose. I think all you've ever wanted to do is to help people, and all the government has ever tried to do is turn you into a killing machine. You are not a killer, John. But you have skills and expertise that can help keep others alive, and I need those skills and expertise. Now, will you help me?"

"I—" 

"You will want to know more, I understand. That is why we have all night. I will tell you what you need to know, what you want to know. And when you have all of the information, you can make a decision."

"And how do I know what you're telling me is the truth?" Hope was the most vicious emotion of them all, John thought.

"You won't, not now. But I promise you; I will never lie to you. Now, will you have a drink? Perhaps a whiskey? I have Oban, Laphroaig. And have a seat, please."

John eased himself down into the nearest chair. It was very comfortable. He took the glass from Thrush and took a sip. It was _very_ good whiskey. He loosened his tie. "So, good whiskey, a job offer. Sounds like a good night. Too bad there won't be any blowjobs at the end of it."

"Oh, I didn't say that, Mr. Reese. Who knows where the evening will end. In the meantime," Thrush settled into his own chair and smiled, "call me Mr. Finch."


End file.
